To Die in Beverly Hills

by Gerald Petievich

  "It was your idea to call him in on the stakeout," Bailey said. "I told you I wanted to do it alone."

  "Calling him in was ... all things considered ... without question, the best thing to do," Kreuzer said, gesturing. "With the Feds involved, no one will ever question what went down. With the owner of the house being a federal witness in Tony Dio's bank scam case, the incident will wash as a contract hit that went sour. There will be a grand jury investigation and they'll subpoena Tony Dio and every other wop in the San Fernando Valley. They'll take the Fifth. The grand jury will adjourn and that's that. I'm telling you the whole thing will wash. And you'll have a plausible reason for refusing to reveal who your informant is. You're just trying to protect him from the Mafia."

  "They'll still ask."

  Kreuzer took off his trousers, which he arranged carefully on a hanger. He scooped the tuxedo coat off the chair and brushed it off with the back of his hand. Having hung the evening attire on a wall hook, he pulled on a pair of plaid pants. Because of his blubbery midsection, he could barely pull up the zipper.

  "I'm sure you didn't call me just to Monday-morning-quarterback," Bailey said.

  Kreuzer pulled on a bright orange shirt. He pointed to a small notebook on the desk. Bailey picked it up. The notations on the first page read:

  Wallace

  Phone: 242-9168

  1402 Coventry Circle Avenue

  On the next page was a rough diagram of a house with the entrances marked with Xs.

  "There is a set of silver in the dining room that is worth at least ten grand," Kreuzer said. "The oriental vase in the living room looks like the real thing. I want the art hanging in the hallway. One is a Degas. Unless you have the time, forget the oils in the living room. They're more trouble than they're worth. There's got to be jewelry too. I saw alarm tape on the front window only." He pulled a comb out of his pocket and ran it straight back through his oily straight hair. He blew into the comb and put it back in his pocket. "There are no private patrol stickers on the windows."

  Travis Bailey ripped the page out of the notebook. He stuffed it in his shirt pocket. "I finally got Delsey in."

  "Congratulations," Kreuzer said perfunctorily. "I hope she works out. I really do."

  Travis Bailey stood up to leave.

  "In general, I'm very pleased with the way things are going," Kreuzer said. "There will be little obstacles from time to time, but I'm sure you agree that, overall, things are going well. I don't believe in being greedy. I really don't. There is enough sugar for everyone. I've always said that. There's more than enough sugar here in Sugarland."

  "The town's been good to me," Bailey said. They exchanged smiles. Bailey opened the door, then looked both ways before he headed for his police car.

  ****

  SIX

  IT WAS almost 2:00 A.M.

  The wide and sterile streets of downtown Beverly Hills were all but deserted. Travis Bailey steered his police car off Rodeo Drive and onto a parking lot filled with Mercedes-Benzes, Cadillacs, expensive sports cars and a few limousines. He parked, locked the car and headed toward a two-story building adjoining the lot. He entered by a glass door. Inside a carpeted, theater-style lobby, a muscle-bound, sandy-haired young man wearing a tuxedo stood in front of a pair of ten-foot-high doors inscribed with blue velvet letters that read:

  The Blue Peach

  A Private Club

  Standing behind ropes and stanchions on the other side of the lobby was a group of teenagers who hung out there on the nights the club was open: movie star groupies.

  "Good evening, Mr. Bailey," the bouncer said. He opened the door. As Bailey entered the place, a Eurasian woman wearing satin culottes and a sable stole brushed past him on her way out. She was on the arm of a seven-foot black basketball star who, as Bailey recalled from a recent article in Variety, had just signed with Twentieth Century-Fox to do the lead in a musical based on the Watts riots. The groupies squealed as the door closed behind him.

  Bailey stopped for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness. It was the regular Blue Peach scene of garishly dressed men and women lounging on sofas that, because of the ceiling lights and the effects of the dark shag carpeting, appeared as fluorescent rafts on a black sea. To the left, a long bar extended the length of the wall. Its mirrors winked reflections of colored lights. At the opposite end of the room was a dimly lit stage back-dropped with a blue velvet curtain.

  Travis Bailey found his way to the end of the bar and climbed onto one of the few empty stools. The crowd was made up of men and women dressed similarly; jeans tight enough to make crotches bulge, open-collar shirts and blouses with gold chains, and boots-expensive ones made of snake or shark or lizard. The man and woman sitting next to him, with their twin blonde hairdos, could have been mistaken for sisters. They spoke to one another with great urgency and used lots of hand gestures; cocaine language.

  "It was absolutely, incredibly, wonderful," the woman said in a New York accent. "I've never seen anything in my life that was so great, so... powerful, so emotional. It makes tears come to my eyes just thinking about it. I loved every minute of it. Damn, it was fantastic, terrific..."

  "I just can't begin to tell you how much I agree with you," interrupted her male companion. "I completely agree with every word... I mean every single fucking word you have just said. Jesus, it was a beautiful movie..." Both of them tapped their fingers on the bar frantically.

  Bobby Chagra, an athletic-looking man of Bailey's age, stood at the opposite end of the bar drying cocktail glasses. He wore a blue Hawaiian-style shirt and white form-fitting trousers that glowed in the dark. He acknowledged Bailey and headed toward him. He pinched a bar napkin and set it in front of Bailey. "What can I get you, sir?" he said as if they had never met.

  Bailey ordered a drink. Chagra scooped ice into a glass. He poured, then set the drink in front of Bailey.

  "So, what's new in here?" Bailey said.

  Chagra glanced at the couple sitting next to Bailey, who continued to rattle intensely to one another. "There's a lady lawyer at the end of the bar that likes to take it in the ass," he said. "She'll even tell you that if you ask her... Interested?"

  Travis Bailey shook his head. "No dirt roads for me," he said with a smile.

  "You should have seen this young bitch that cruised in here last night. She sat down right where you are and starts talking about how she loves coke. She was a healthy-looking bitch, a jogger type with a great rack ... a couple of real pointers. And I'm not talking about a bra with rubber nipples. I'm talking about a pair of honest-to-Christ pointed nips that must have weighed as much as silver dollars." He cupped his hands at chest level. "I'm talking about radar, man. Plus the bitch had a nice ass; small waist, nice ass. I blew a little smoke on her, introduced her to a few of the studio people who hang in here. Like I can see she's buying my act. Before closing time I hit on her and she goes for the 'horn a little coke at my place' act. The only problem is I don't have any fucking cocaine! She follows me over to my pad. She wants a spoon right off. I asked her to wait, that I'm into balling naturally. I promised her I'd drag out my stash as soon as we got it on. 'Fair enough,' she says. Then she bends over, undoes her four-hooker and tosses the rest of her clothes. She musta read one of those sex manuals. You should see her act. She was really getting into it. Afterward we're lying there in the bed. The bitch is sweating. She has come all over her and she says, 'Where's the cocaine?' I told the dumb bitch to get the fuck out of my apartment. You should have seen the look on her face!"

  They laughed.

  "Bitches like her are in here every night," Chagra said.

  "They all claim to have a script that's going to sell next week. Either that or they've just had an argument with their boyfriend and she walked out and left him in Palm Springs or La Paz. I let 'em tell their little sob story, then I ball 'em at closing time."

  A red-haired cocktail waitress wearing a see-through blouse flitted up to the bar station. "Hello, Travis,"
she said in her best slinky tone. She called off the names of drinks. Chagra prepared them quickly and set them on her serving tray. "You're sure talkative tonight," she said to Bailey. He ignored her as she hefted her tray and headed toward the lounge area.

  "There's a Jewish guy at the end of the bar who's got the broad sitting next to him convinced that he's a Cherokee Indian," Chagra said, laughing.

  "We need to talk," Bailey said.

  "I know we do."

  "Get someone to fill in for you." Bailey climbed off the bar stool and wandered into the men's room. The carpeted and mirrored room smelled of lilac deodorant. It was vacant. He turned on the faucet and washed his hands. A minute later Chagra pushed open the door. He joined Bailey at the sinks. He had a worried look.

  "I wish you would have told me you were going to do it," Chagra said. "It was chickenshit that you didn't tell me.

  "Tell you what, Bones?"

  "Lee screwed up and if somebody screws me I don't give a shit what happens to him," Bones said. "Lee had it coming. You and I always split even with him and he turned around and fucked us right in the ass. Things were going perfect and he ruined everything by shaving off the top. I told you when I first brought him in that I wasn't one hundred percent sure of the motherfucker... but that he seemed okay. I had no way of knowing."

  "He was okay..." Bailey said, "until he got greedy." His smile was sarcastic.

  "I told Emil that Lee sold that Picasso behind our backs. I had a right to know if you were going to do anything radical. You should have told me."

  Travis Bailey dried his hands. He slipped a comb out of his back pocket and ran it through his hair a few times. "You've made your point," he said to the mirror. He put the comb away. Having slipped the note with the Coventry Circle address from his pocket, he handed it to Chagra.

  Chagra unfolded the note. His lips moved as he read it.

  "Questions?" Bailey said.

  "Dogs?"

  "Emil says no dogs."

  "Is he sure there are no dogs? It seems like everyone who lives on Coventry Circle has dogs."

  Bailey shrugged. "Emil said there are no dogs to worry about."

  "Is there a safe?"

  "He didn't see one when he cased the place," Bailey said, again speaking to the mirror. "But if you see one, I'd say it would definitely be worth spending some time on. Why rush and miss a prize?"

  The men's room door opened. Bailey and Chagra busied themselves at the sink. A frizzy-haired man in his twenties wearing a red jump suit and European-frame eyeglasses staggered in the door and approached a urinal.

  Bailey followed Chagra out the door. In the dark alcove outside the rest room he grabbed Chagra by the arm. "Do you remember the address?"

  "Fourteen-oh-two Coventry Circle."

  Travis Bailey pulled the note bearing the address from Chagra's shirt pocket. He tore the note into pieces and tossed them into a stand-up ashtray. "Go for it," he said, and walked away. As he passed through the lounge area on his way to the front door, the stage lights came on. A tall black woman wearing a skin-tight black leather outfit strutted onto the stage. The combo behind her started playing. She straddled the microphone and shrieked unintelligible lyrics.

  The ceiling lights pulsated.

  Charles Carr sat at his desk in the Field Office. The notepaper scribbled with phone numbers that he'd found in Leon Sheboygan's apartment was in front of him. He lit a cigarette and set it in an ashtray. He dialed a number. It was not in service. He drew a line through it.

  He dialed another. A man with a whiskey voice said, "Hello."

  "This is Charlie," Carr said. "Did you hear about Leon?"

  "Leon who?"

  "Leon Sheboygan."

  "What about him?" the man said. He yawned Indian-yell style.

  "He got wasted by the cops."

  "No lie?"

  "No lie. They blew him up inside a house in Beverly Hills."

  The man yawned again. "That is some real heavy shit, man. Wow."

  "I'm trying to get in touch with Bones to let him know," Carr said. "...any ideas where I can reach him?"

  "You tried Manny?"

  "Not yet."

  "He should know," the man said.

  "I lost his phone number."

  "Where'd you say we met?"

  "At that party."

  "Yeah, I think I remember. What'd ya say your name was?"

  "Charlie."

  "Okay," the man mumbled. He read off a number.

  Carr wrote it down, then hung up the receiver for a moment. He dialed. A woman answered. Carr asked for Manny.

  "Manny's not here," she said. "Who is calling?"

  "Charlie. I'm trying to find Bones. It's important."

  "Bones hasn't been around here in a couple of weeks," she said. "...Charlie who?"

  "Lee's friend."

  "Lee's dead."

  "That's why I'm trying to find Bones."

  "I think Manny is supposed to see him this week."

  "Where?"

  "Fuck if I know."

  Carr said thanks and hung up. Carr dialed another number. A woman answered.

  "I'm trying to find Lee," Carr said. "Is he there?"

  A silence. "God..." she said in an anguished tone, "haven't you heard?"

  "About what?"

  "Lee is...uh...dead. Sorry for saying it over the phone like that."

  "Jeez," Carr said. "How did it happen?"

  "The pigs shot him. He was doing a place and they were waiting inside. I couldn't sleep all night after I heard."

  "Does Bones know?"

  "Who's Bones?"

  "His roommate. The guy with the gray hair."

  "Oh, him. I've only met him once."

  "Any ideas where I can reach him?"

  "By the way, who is this?" the woman's tone changed abruptly.

  "Charlie," Carr said. "Lee and I did some time together."

  "Oh. Lee probably mentioned your name and I just don't remember. I'm really superbad with names. Really superbad."

  "Do you have a number for Bones?"

  "No ... he was living with Lee up until a couple of weeks ago. I think they had an argument about something. Bones was supposed to have moved up to Malibu."

  "Where can I find him?"

  "I think he's still working at the... Say, just how did you get my telephone number?"

  "Lee left an address book over at my place. He mentioned your name once."

  "Even so, I don't think I should give any more information out over the phone," the woman said. "For all I know you could be a cop or something."

  The phone clicked.

  Carr set the receiver down on the cradle. There was one number left. Carr dialed. A man's voice answered, "Beverly Hills Police Department." Carr hung up.

  It was late and he couldn't decide whether he was more hungry or tired. On his way to the Federal Building parking lot he toyed with the idea of heading straight for his apartment and getting a good night's sleep. Having climbed in his sedan, it seemed to drive itself to Chinatown. In a restaurant that was getting ready to close, he ordered an oversized plate of diced chicken with peanuts, a bowl of steamed rice and a pot of tea. He paid his bill and headed for his car. He climbed in and looked at his wristwatch. It was 1:00 A.m. After he rubbed his eyes for a while he started the engine.

  He drove to Cedars of Lebanon Hospital and took the elevator to the fourth floor. He found his way to Jack Kelly's room and tiptoed in. Kelly still had tubes attached to his nose and arms. He breathed deeply. Carr thought his face looked yellowish in the dim light. He stood next to the bed for a long while. There were sounds in the hallway until a Filipino nurse pushed her way in the door. She was carrying a small tray. "He's not supposed to have visitors," she said as she approached the bed, "especially at this hour." She wiped Kelly's upper arm with alcohol-soaked cotton and gave him an injection.

  Carr tiptoed out of the room.

  Travis Bailey's unmarked police car was parked in the circular drivewa
y in front of the Wallace residence.

  Inside, he sat on the sofa in the white-carpeted living room with a clipboard on his lap. As Mrs. Wallace spoke, he filled in the spaces on a burglar report form.

  "My gold lighter is gone too," she said gloomily. "I had left it on the bedroom dresser when I left for the theater. Just the thought of some strange person, some burglar, having been in my bedroom gives me goose bumps. My husband is on location and I phoned him and begged him to come back. I know I won't be able to sleep a wink in this house from now on without him here."

  Bailey printed "gold cigarette case" under the section of the burglary report marked Property Taken. "What is your estimate of the value of the cigarette case?" he said.

  "It had a diamond inlay," she said as she wrung her hands. "My husband gave it to me for my birthday. I know it cost at least three thousand dollars ... Of course, diamonds have appreciated a great deal during the last year."

  "Would six thousand be a fair estimate?"

  "I'm sure it's worth at least that much," Mrs. Wallace said without looking him in the eye.

  "I hope you have insurance. You've suffered quite a loss."

  "California Life and Casualty," she said. "...Thank God the burglars didn't steal my abstracts." She pointed to them. They were painted by my sister ... in fact, she was the one who always said it was better to look at the brighter side of life. She said that out of all bad things comes something good. I've always believed that too."

  Bailey read off the list of stolen items. He asked her if there was anything else. She said no. He handed her the clipboard and asked her to sign the burglary report. She signed the report and handed it back to him.

  "Do you think there is any chance at all that you will be able to catch the burglar?" she said. "To get my things back?"

  Travis Bailey shoved his pen into his shirt pocket. He looked the woman in the eye. "I'm going to do my very best to apprehend the person who committed this crime, Mrs. Wallace. You can count on that." He stood up.